“Yes, all true. Your guv’nor’s going to ride La Sylphide, and a hundred to one he wins.”
“And you never told me, an old friend,” said Trimmer, reproachfully.
“No friendship in betting, sir. I stand to lose a pile over the job, and I must make a bit back. Did I ask you to put your money on Jim Crow?”
“No—but—”
“No, but!” said the trainer, scornfully. “Take it as I do. You don’t hear me ’owl.”
Trimmer, who was as white as a sheet, sat panting, as he stared hard at the trainer, and then glanced up over his shoulder at the gallery.
“C’rect card, gentlemen—all the runners, sir,” came from the outside to break the silence, backed up by the murmur from the course.
“Sam,” whispered the agent at last, and he leant towards the trainer, “do you really stand to lose five thou’?”
“Every penny of it,” growled the trainer, with a terrible oath, and a look which bespoke his sincerity. “What’s your twopenny bet to that? This is your somethinged guvnor’s doing. Confound him! I’d poison him if I could.”
“Ha!” sighed Trimmer.